


Smoke And Gold

by theterribletyrian



Category: Guild Wars
Genre: F/M, Human (Guild Wars), Lion's Arch (Guild Wars), Villains, Wintersday (Guild Wars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 10:02:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5581498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theterribletyrian/pseuds/theterribletyrian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ylvae, taking a well-earned rest in Lion's Arch with her jungle stalker companion Kaspar, encounters an old nemesis.  The meeting does not go well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke And Gold

**Author's Note:**

> * TRIGGERS: I chose not to apply archive warnings, as a lot of things are hinted at or suggested, but (for the most part) not explicitly described. That said, there is a decent amount of non-bloody violence in this, part of which causes a death; also, if you are triggered by swearing, anything to do with degrading endearments, or the suggestion of impending rape, read with caution.  
> 
> * THANKS: To Nox from my awesome RP guild [Mist] (The Mistwatch Initiative), for providing the writing challenge prompt ("all I want for Wintersday") that led to this piece!  
> 

****Mid-afternoon in Lion's Arch. The sun beat down, a hammer striking the anvil of the land in waves of shimmering, relentless heat. Wintersday was three sleeps away, but Kryta was baking as if it didn't know the meaning of _snow_. It was disgustingly hot, and almost everyone had retreated indoors.

"Sod off," Ylvae said in a pleasant, conversational tone. It looked like she was talking to the seagull perched on a barnacle-encrusted bollard in front of her. To be fair, said bird _was_ eyeing off the fresh roll in her hand with a more than passing interest.

The three footpads in the alleyway behind her, however, paused. "Did she ... is she talking to us?" whispered one of them. Grimy fingers stroked his ragged beard, a nervous gesture. A fishy, rotten stench wafted around the group in an almost visible cloud as they peered across the lane. The white-haired ranger, perched comfortably at the end of the wharf with one boot-clad foot stretched out in front of her, said nothing further.

"Dunno," replied one of his companions, bemused. The other stayed silent, his face bored. "Let's find out." The second man exited the alley with a purposeful stride, footsteps thudding loud and clear on the cobblestones. _Don't mind me_ , they said. _Just another trader passing by_.

Ylvae minded. She minded quite a bit, her sharp ears catching the faint rasp of a rusty dagger as it left its sheath. Her right hand shot up in the universal sign for 'stop' while her left came to rest on the bow beside her. The footpad halted, confused. "Good boy," she said, her voice as light and clear as the breeze ruffling her hair. "Now turn around, and get your stinking ass back into the alley where it belongs."

A growl shivered the air behind her -- frustration, or perhaps affront -- but the footsteps retreated, grudging and slow. Ylvae lifted the roll to her mouth again, tearing off another currant-studded bite. She wasn't overly concerned; she'd be able to _smell_ them coming a mile away. The wind was a headless chicken, rushing this way and that, but right then it carried the reek of decaying tuna and unwashed skin. Her nose wrinkled in eloquent disgust.

Down the waterfront to her right, Kaspar frolicked in the gentle surf. She smiled as the huge cat splashed about, wavelets breaking around him in a flurry of leaps and bounds. He was the only feline she'd ever known who enjoyed getting wet. These fortnightly stopovers in the City of Trade were a much-beloved tradition that stretched all the way back to their first few years together: he a bumbling kit with oversized paws, she so new at her craft that her fingers bled from longbow practice.

The seagull hopped closer as she finished the roll, brushing the crumbs from her tunic. The burlap sack at her side yielded another, and gooey icing smeared her lips as she bit into the intoxicating sweetness. Gods, but she loved getting paid. She and Kaspar did well enough that they didn't often go hungry, but it was still a luxury to indulge herself with her favourite snack.

 _Kaspar_ , she called. His head turned at once, tail flicking a question amid the seafoam. _Hungry?_ She hefted a chunk of fresh salmon into the air so he could see. He shook himself all over, debated for a moment, then leapt back into the surf. Ylvae shrugged and put the fish back down, returning her attention to the roll. _Suit yourself_.

Thanks to an unexpected windfall the week before, they had a good five days to burn in the city this time. During the fight, Kaspar had stepped so lightly around the fresh clutch of eggs that she'd been able to harvest them all. Rogue giant spiders were a problem; trained ones were expensive as hell. The purse was a comfortable bulge hanging heavily from a cord looped around her neck, tucked safely out of sight.

 _Five days_ , she mused, looking around idly. What could they do in five days? She was a regular at several taverns -- and the local constabulary knew her on sight -- but neither she nor Kaspar really had any friends here. And being thrown out on her drunk ass was getting old, even for her. _She_ was getting old.

A wave of good-natured contempt swept over her, tinged with her stalker's distinctive hot-copper-dry-grass touch. "Easy enough for you to say," she mumbled. "You're going to outlive me unless we're really, really stupid one day." Her mind registered a thoroughly feline snort, skeptical and brash. "Well, unless _you're_ really stupid, anyway." Kaspar's tail flipped a rude little response as he lunged for a piece of flotsam. Despite her mood, she grinned.

They still didn't have any plans, though. She lay back on the sun-warmed boards, shifting until she was comfortable, and ignored the crunch of salt beneath her body. Far overhead, puffy white clouds sailed blithely across a sky the colour of forget-me-nots. She squinted against the light, one hand shading her vision, then closed her eyes altogether and licked icing from her fingers.

With Kaspar on watch, a nap wouldn't hurt. She could do with some sun, anyway.

* * *

It seemed like mere minutes had passed when a shadow fell across her, blocking out the warmth. The wind had shifted, blowing inland.

Ylvae blinked, peering up at the interested, dirt-smeared face of a young child. It was hard to decide whether the urchin was male or female. The greasy, stringy hair was of indeterminate length, and the body was clad in the typical garb of all Krytan beggars: patchwork rags made dull by the sun, stitched haphazardly together in a way that created more holes than coverage. The seagull was nowhere in sight, and the wharf had been picked clean of crumbs. The hunk of salmon was gone too, to her annoyance.

Kaspar wasn't worried, so she didn't try to sit up. "Hello." Bright blue eyes blinked in response, and a shy "... 'lo" came drifting down. "What can I do for you, kid?" She was pretty sure it was a girl, though it was damned hard to tell with all that muck. How did a child living in a seaport get that grubby, anyway?

Cracked lips pursed, thin cheeks ballooning out on a brief exhale. "I like your kitty." Kaspar's amusement flowed into her head, a warm and comforting montage of kits tumbling over each other in the grass. She chuckled to herself.

"I like him, too," she returned with a wink. "Do you have a cat?"

The girl shook her head. "Got no cat, no 'ome. An'," her eyes flicked briefly to the sack at Ylvae's side, "no food neither." Her gaze met the ranger's again, something troubled lurking in their cerulean depths. Well, she probably didn't have much to be happy about. Living in poverty was no joke.

Ylvae gave her a friendly smile. "I've been where you are now," she said, though the girl didn't seem to believe her. "Tell you what, hon. Give me a little conversation first; that's how people generally do it in polite society. Then we can eat together -- an early Wintersday feast, just you and me. Okay?" The girl nodded, silent and wide-eyed.

"So tell me," the ranger prodded gently. "What is it you like about Kaspar?"

"Tha's 'is name?"

"Sure is. He's a jungle stalker. Got him when he was a kit, and we've been together ever since."

The girl turned, giving Kaspar -- still playing in the water -- a thorough once-over. She looked more serious than any kid her age ought to be, and Ylvae's heart tripped slightly, remembering another girl with too much knowledge in her eyes.

"'e's big," was the verdict. The ranger blinked. "An' 'e looks _strong_." Fierce longing played over her face as she watched the stalker belly-flop into an oncoming wave. Ylvae stirred, responding even as she pushed herself up.

"He _is_ strong. He's good at hunting, to- agh!" She cut off with a yelp as a boot encrusted with various unmentionable substances landed on her hair, jerking painfully at her scalp. Tears made the world go blurry as her head slammed back down on the boards. Kaspar's sudden alarm was a spear piercing her consciousness; a bolt of astonished agony flashed through the link between them before his mind vanished from her senses. The smell of fish gone bad smothered her. She blinked frantically, both hands reaching for the sword and axe strapped to her calves as her eyes cleared.

"Uh-uh, no you don't." The footpad's grin was a gap-toothed, foul-breathed nightmare blocking out the sun. One of his cronies grabbed her wrists, holding them well away from her weapons whilst deftly avoiding the kick she aimed at his head. As soon as her foot came back down, he threw a leg over both of hers, holding her in place with some difficulty. Ylvae couldn't see the girl anywhere, but she could hear the shrill young voice somewhere nearby.

"Lemme _go_! I did whatcha wunn'ed an' you said I could 'ave 'im! You PROMISED!" She sounded close to tears. "You said this'd be the las' job an' -- get yer 'ands _of_ -" Before the beleaguered woman could wrench her head free of the footpad's boot, the sickening sound of flesh hitting flesh cracked through the air, followed by an ominous thud. The girl said nothing further.

"What did you DO to her, you assholes?" Ylvae yelled, writhing like a snake as she tried to escape their hold. " _LIONGUARD! HELP!_ " One of her feet smacked into her bow, sending it straight into the water.

The man at her head merely laughed, a sound that made her flesh creep. "They ain't commin' for ye, darlin'. We got a gud thing goin' 'ere with sum, lessay, _ontroprenoirial_ sorts in the 'guard."  He flipped his dagger in one hand, a casual movement laced with threat.

She swore under her breath and kicked blindly at the one pinning her wrists, her foot connecting with nothing but air. Grenth, but this afternoon had gone south in a fucking hurry. And she'd wanted to _do_ something for five days? Escaping these two idiots seemed way more important, all of a sudden. She couldn't even bear to think about Kaspar.

"You godsdamned _cretins_. Fuck off!"

* * *

"Language ..."

The third footpad sauntered into her field of vision, chewing a long, broken straw. He was in his fifties, maybe early sixties, and looked meaner than the others. He stared down at her without any expression whatsoever, his homespun vest flapping slightly in the wind. She stilled, eyes scanning his face. His black hair was a lank, unkempt mop squashed beneath a cap of worn red cloth, tanned features streaked with sweat and grime, but ...

"I know you," she said slowly, ignoring the other two. The man smiled and she shivered at the cruelty in it, her voice wavering with fear and fury. "You were ... you were there the night the house burned down. _You were the one who smelled like smoke._ "

The man spat out the straw and pushed the brim of the cap up with one careless hand. "That I was, my dear," he allowed, and his accent -- so oddly refined for his looks -- brought the memory crashing back in vivid, excruciating detail. Her eyes filled again; impotent, furious tears that spilled over her cheeks in a hot and shameful cascade.

"I was just telling these fine fellows," he nodded at his companions, "that I needed some ... entertainment. It's been a bland season, full of nothing but disappointments and excuses. Petty thieves trying to steal from me. Merchants hiding in cellars instead of paying me what I'm owed for keeping their pudgy necks far from the noose ... or the knife. All so childish." He clucked his tongue disapprovingly, black eyes boring into hers.

"And then! -- there you were. Fresh and bright and," he reached down, ignoring her exclamation of outrage, and fished the heavy purse from beneath her tunic. "Flush with cash. The one who got away, isn't that right, my pretty?" he crooned, letting the bag thump back onto her chest. His laugh scalded her.

She began to shake, fear blanking out the pain lacing her scalp. "Let me go," she whispered, hating the tremble in her voice.

"Oh, no. No, we can't have that. A demand?" He stooped low over her, close enough that she realised he only _looked_ like a thug; the scent of his cologne woke nuances of that flame-laced night. Smoke and gold: that was his scent. Filthy rich destruction. "No, darling. You have to _beg_. Just like you did all those years ago."

"I will _not_." She forced the words out through clenched teeth, sickened by his endearments. The blow came without warning, snapping her face to the side. Gasping, she felt her cheek begin to swell.

He crouched next to her, his voice flat. "You'll beg, or you'll regret you were ever born."

A tense silence followed. Ten heartbeats, twenty ... "Beg me, whore, and you'd better do it soon."

" _Please_." She nearly choked on it. "Let me go. Please."

"Ahhhhh." He let out a long sigh of satisfaction, looking to the other two men. "Doesn't she do it prettily? But it took her a while, so ..." His clenched fist slammed into her side, the crack of bone and her agonised cry rising like twinned prayers to the sky. "Beg _again_ , and make me believe it."

She was crying too hard to speak, each breath a knife tearing through her broken ribs. He tutted, rising. "Not good enough, darling. Not good enough by half. Get her up," he ordered curtly. The boot on her hair lifted. Rough hands hauled her to her feet without ceremony, scream cut short by a sweaty hand clamped over her mouth. Behind him she saw the motionless form of the girl, sprawled awkwardly over the edge of the wharf. Light brown hair dragged against the surface of the water, but the body itself showed no sign of life.

"Listen to me, you little bitch," he hissed into her ear, one brutal fist clenched in her mud-streaked platinum locks. "All I wanted for Wintersday was a bit of fun, and while I didn't expect you to fall into my lap like this, you'll do nicely. We've unfinished business, don't we, _pet_?" With that, he thrust her from him, her body colliding painfully with the hands of the men behind her.

He turned away and pulled a pipe from the pocket of his vest, carefully tamping the tobacco to the music of her stifled sobs. The first puff drew a satisfied grunt, smoke curling about his head in a blue-grey wreath as he exhaled. "Bring her," he snapped, striding across the street.

* * *

As the four vanished once more into the alleyway, the seagull circling lazily overhead drifted down, landing lightly on the same bollard as before. He sidled forward, beady eyes fixed on the discarded sack, the opening of which revealed two perfect, icing-topped currant buns.

The body of the girl slipped into the water without so much as a splash.

 


End file.
